


A Beautiful Wolf

by Caenea



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Body-confidence, Childbirth, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Happily Ever After, Language, OOC behaviour, Post-birth bodies, Sandor is a cinnamon roll, Sex-positive parents, Smut, Some stretched logic, fight me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 18:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14454861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caenea/pseuds/Caenea
Summary: Arya’s feeling self-conscious about her body since the baby came. Sandor sets out to prove she’s still beautiful.





	A Beautiful Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> I guess you could read this as the alternative ending to The Girl in the Crypt if you want :)
> 
> Comments, kudos, all-round bollockings for butchering the Hound's good name and reputation all welcome and gratefully received.
> 
> I am not in any way pretending that some of the Hound's behaviour in this is remotely likely but it's artistic license, just suspend your disbelief because it ends in shagging for Sandor and Arya :)

The baby snorted at Arya's breast for a moment before he got his bearings. The lusty cries that had filled the room only moments before quietened immediately, replaced by little snuffles. Arya looked dazed as she stared down at the slightly purple child in her arms, her hair sticking to forehead and neck with sweat. The fat Maester was smiling at her.

                "That's the way, my lady. He's such a strong boy. This will help your milk come in." He just stared.

                                                      
The last hours had been terrifying - he'd had enough of waiting outside, listening to her scream. He'd busted into their chambers, ignored every protest from the Maester and his wife Gilly, who'd come to help for some reason - he'd missed exactly why - and gone straight to her. She'd reached for him immediately, grabbing his hands and squeezing hard. She'd also growled and sworn and snarled as the pain took her in waves, she had cursed him viciously and at one point had threatened him with castration - but she had reached for him. And now there she was, completely calm, cheeks still flushed with the exertion - with his son nursing at her breast. His son. Their son. His and her's and Gods but he was a weird-looking thing. He'd slid into the world purple and bloody, his first breaths coming with a roar that Sandor had been proud of. Shouting the odds, just like his parents. He had dark hair too, a wet sheen of it covering his head like duck down. He had hands, tiny little hands - one of which he could see clenched tight against Arya's chest. He'd never felt so useless - but she knew. She was looking up at him, tearing her eyes away from their boy to look at him. Gods, she looked fucking dreadful - and he'd never thought her more beautiful than in this moment.

                "Sandor," she said. "Sandor, get over here and look at our son." He approached her cautiously. "Sit with me," she insisted.

                "My lady, please," the Maester protested, looking scandalised. "You have yet to deliver the afterbirth -"

                "Fuck that, he's seen worse. And stop calling me my lady, Sam, how many bloody times?" He got on the bed, never more aware of his own bulk. Was she still in pain? She must be. He might hurt her. When he was finally beside her, she leant against him. He got his arm out from between them, wrapped it round her. The baby detached from her breast, a drop of something clear sliding over his cheek. "Should he come away so soon?" Arya demanded of Tarly.

                "He's done very well, my la- very well. You'll not have your milk yet. This is just the stage before it, the first fluid. It'll nourish him until your milk comes." Arya grunted then, screwing up her face in discomfort. He saw her tense, looked down and saw a dark, bloody mass slide out from between her legs. He damn near vomited. "That's the afterbirth. It's whole," Tarly said, looking relieved. He gestured at Gilly. "Let's get rid of all this linen and mess." The girl scooped the thing up, sheets with it, carried it away to a table, dumping it all into a bucket. Sandor returned his attention to his wife. Tarly was peering at Arya in a way Sandor was almost annoyed by. "You've done well," he said, sitting back. "There's no tearing. Gilly, let's get all the sheets and the afterbirth burnt." Gilly nodded, still bundling sheets into buckets before she came back to the bed.

                “You might need to hand him to his father," she told Arya, smiling gently. "We need to see to you now." Arya grinned up at him, even through the weariness in her eyes.

                "Take him then, you daft dog," she said softly. Sandor could feel the panic closing his throat. He was too big, too rough, too brutish to even _touch_ such a tiny scrap, let alone hold him. "Sandor," and Arya's voice was so soft. He'd never heard her speak like that. "It will be fine."

  
She was wrong. It was a thousand times better than _fine_. His big hands cupped the baby's head perfectly, his wide arms cradled the little body with ample room. One fat fist waved out of the sheet he'd been wrapped in and he was utterly, utterly transfixed. Gilly urged him to bring the child to her, but he refused to let him go. She smiled indulgently, let Sandor keep him tucked in his arms while she gently wiped away the blood he'd been born covered in. She wrapped him in a new sheet, and the now-pink face wrinkled as the baby yawned widely. He had the biggest dark eyes.

                "Rare, those eyes," the girl said as she stepped back. "Babies normally have blue eyes. Little Sam had the bluest eyes. Won't ever forget seeing those eyes." There was a stirring behind him.

                "Sandor, take him to see Sansa and Jon," Arya said. "I think Sam and I need a moment."

  
He didn't want to leave her, but he did not need to go far. Outside the doors, he found Sansa and Jon, Jon pacing and Sansa sitting stiffly on a chair someone must have brought for her. When they saw the bundle in his arms, both of them leapt at him.

                "Is it - is she - the baby?" Jon Snow asked, and somehow Sandor knew what it all meant.

                "Healthy boy," he grunted. "She's fucking perfect - and so is he."

  
Six months later, and sometimes he still couldn't believe it. He still found himself looking at her and marvelling at what she'd done. He still found himself gazing at his son and thinking fuck me, that's my son and wondering what the fuck he'd done to deserve it. And whenever he saw Arya put the boy to her breast, he was shocked by his love. Tormund teased that he was getting soft, conquered by a tiny woman and a babe and he did not protest it. True, Sansa had gently suggested a wet-nurse, but Arya had flatly refused - he's my child. I'll be suckling him myself - and Jon had made mutterings about a nursery for the boy - he's not going anywhere without me - but he adored the domesticity of it all. He adored waking up and seeing the carved wooden Stark family cradle - that Arya must have slept in too - standing by the bed. He'd get up and creep over to it, look down at the sleeping face - or red and screaming face - of his son and just stare. He'd heard plenty of mutterings in the castle about what kind of a father such a vicious murdering monster could possibly be - but that had been before the boy came. They'd named him Eddard, Arya had wanted it so badly, and how could he possibly refuse her?

  
The boy was a year old, walking now - or rather tottering. The Maester was pleased with him, saying he was good and strong and huge. He was devoted to Arya, he would stagger after his mother with absolute determination. Sansa adored the boy too, and it touched Sandor a little to see his son sat happily on his aunt's lap while she spoilt him rotten. And him. He was the one the boy went to if he tumbled down particularly hard, if he was grumpy it was Sandor he would hold his arms up to, saying "da da da" over and over. Sandor would pick him up and swing him up over his head until the boy squealed with joy and Sansa worried and Arya roared with laughter at them. A child brought them all back to life, and if there were sad days, they were entirely eclipsed by the joy one gummy smile could produce.

  
But Arya was different. She hadn't let him touch her for a long time afterwards. He wanted to run his hands over every inch of her, worship the body that had done something so godsdamned incredible. Seven Hells, he would have got on his knees in front of her and barked like the dog he was if she'd said it would make her happy. But she wouldn't let him. Oh, she'd rejoined their love-making with all her usual verve once she'd got over the birth - but it was different. She kept her shift on, hitched it to her waist to let him in but kept her breasts and belly hidden from him. If his hands did wander, she'd slap them away, stiffen up, sometimes even stop them altogether. Six months of it he'd had, and if he was completely honest, it was starting to grate. If he asked, she claimed she was fine, that there wasn't a problem but there so clearly bloody was and it was infuriating him.

  
In the end, it was driving a rift between them. He thought if he just _knew_ what the problem was, he could work around it or at least try and fix the problem. He walked in on her getting out of the bath in their chambers one day, stood transfixed. He hadn't seen her naked for a year, the last time he had she'd been pregnant - and she was gorgeous. The angles she'd had before the boy had softened, she was curves now instead of points. She covered herself as soon as she saw him, red anger colouring her cheeks.

                "Didn't you ever hear of privacy?" she demanded angrily, wrapping a sheet around herself.

                "You're beautiful," he blurted. She flushed, turned her back.

                "No I'm not." She stalked into their bedroom before he could say anything or do anything. With a growl of frustration, he'd stomped off, found Sansa in the Hall by the fire and confronted her about it.

                "What the hell is wrong with your sister?" he demanded. She frowned up at him.

                "Nothing, as far as I know. Why?"

                "No reason," he growled, losing his nerve. Gods, he couldn't look Sansa in the face and tell her your sister won't let me see her naked and do it with any semblance of dignity.

                "Well it isn't _no reason_ is it, else you wouldn't be here."

                "I - nothing," he mumbled, stumping off.

  
Who could he ask? Arya wasn't telling him anything, that was for damn sure. It was seeing Tormund that gave him the idea. He needed to speak to a man who had had a woman give him a kid. Not Tormund though - the ribbing wouldn't stop unless he pounded his face to mince. He went to Sam Tarly, the fat Maester. Gilly, his Wildling wife, she'd had a baby to him. And he was a Maester - he'd delivered Eddie. He'd know. Gilly was with him too, reading some tome with her baby - just a month old - strapped to her chest and fast asleep.

                "Ser Clegane," Tarly said, looking up. "Have you injured yourself?"

                "No," he grunted, although he didn't necessarily blame Tarly for assuming that. Apart from the birth, his interactions with Tarly had been limited to him bandaging him up after battles or training sessions. "It's Arya. Can I speak to you - privately." Gilly got up at once.

                "I'll leave you," she said, sliding away like a ghost. How the hell did she always move so bloody quietly? Sandor waited for the door to close.

                "Is Arya injured or -"

                "She won't let me touch her," Sandor blurted. "Or see her naked." Tarly blinked several times before he remembered to close his mouth. His skin was reddening.

                "Ah. Um - well, er, Ser -"

                "Sandor," he growled. "Or Hound. No bloody Ser's here."

                "Sandor, yes, my apologies. Some women can be - _concerned_ , after a birth, they can ah - associate intimacy with -"

                "She fucks me," Sandor growled, feeling his own face redden. Gods, what the hell had he been thinking? This had been a monumental mistake.

                "Oh. Then er - forgive me - I don't-"

                "I want to know why she won't let me see her naked," he growled. Sam fidgeted with his papers.

                "I think perhaps - if you would agree - perhaps we should ask Gilly that." Sandor nodded jerkily. His jaw had locked tight anyway. Arya would skin him alive if she ever found out about this. Perhaps Tarly understood. "I shall appraise her of the - situation." He went out too - nowhere near as silently as Gilly had - and Sandor was left to pick at his fingernails and contemplate running for the hills.

  
When someone opened the door, he knew immediately it wasn't Sam. The silence said it was Gilly, and Gilly alone. She circled round him, came to a stop in front of him.

                "It's not you," she said. "She just feels different now."

                "Feels the same to me," he muttered. "Better even, she's softer now."

                "It isn't better to her," Gilly said. He still couldn't look her in the eye, probably never would again. "She fights - or did when there was a fight. Born in battle, washed in blood." He wondered if that was a Wildling saying. "You and her think hard is better. You think hard is strong and soft is weak. She thinks you don't want to see softness."

                "She never gave a shit what she looked like before." He didn't think of shy when he thought of Arya. The first time they'd fucked was because he'd come into his chamber at Winterfell the night before the battle to find her nameday-bare on his bed, fingers in her cunt and eyes burning into him. _Fuck me, Sandor. I've seen you watching me. Fuck me, because we're all probably going to die tomorrow_. Hadn't that been vaguely awkward when they'd actually won? She'd come up to him still covered in soot and a surprising amount of blood when one considered Wights didn't bleed. _Let's get married and spend the rest of our lives fucking._

_  
_ No, shy had never described her. Antagonistic, stubborn, confidently, fucking dangerous - sure. But never shy.

                "You should show her you don't care." Oh that was _excellent advice_ when one considered his wife wouldn't even let him look at her. Or touch her above the waist. How was he meant to make her believe it? He stomped off, back to their rooms, grumbling the whole way. He should have never gone down this road. He should never have asked. He should have just kept his great stupid mouth shut and got on with it, left Arya to whatever the fuck was in her head. It wasn't like he didn't still love fucking her, he still liked nothing better than having her clenching tight around him as she wailed his name in white-hot pleasure. He could have and should have just worked around her.

  
Except - she was right _there_ again, the boy was safely asleep - in his own chamber now - and she was taking off her clothes and she had to take her shirt off and stand there naked before she pulled the shift on. Kept her back to him, of course - which also meant she couldn't see him move. He had her naked body in his arms before she realised what was going on, pulling her into his bare chest and letting her feel his arousal through the breeches that separated them.

                "Sandor!"

                "You've started letting your guard down." He deliberately used his come to bed voice. He felt the shudder go through her.

                "Let go of me you big bully," she said, wriggling and laughing.

                "Oh, I will. After I do this." He kept one arm around her shoulders to keep her there, let the other run down her arm, dance over her hip.

                "Sandor - um - my shift, let me get dressed -"

                "Why would you need to get dressed? Are we not fucking?"

                "No, I mean yes but let me -"

                "Tell me why you want it," he said.

                "Because you don't want to look at me now I -"

  
He spun her in her arms, looked into her face, struck damn near dumb by her words.

                "What are you talking about woman? I _always_ want to look at you. Naked as you were when I found you waiting for me in my bed with your legs spread wide and _dripping_ for me." He knelt down then, knelt and brought his face level with her chest. Gods, her tits. They were bigger than they had been, softer-looking, the nipples a shade darker although she'd weaned months back. He put his hands on her waist, urged her forward so he could kiss one perfect peak then the other. Above him, he heard a tiny, eager gasp. "Perfect," he growled, looking up at her. She shook her head.

                "Soft -"

                "And perfect. You think I give a shit about the marks on your belly?" He could see them, pink and long, the skin around them still milk-pale. He bent his head, kissed the one just above her cunt.

                "They're ugly," she whispered, and if it hadn't been for the fact that he'd sat back and had actually seen her lips move, he would never have believed she said it.

                "Are my scars ugly?" he demanded, surging to his feet.

                "That isn't what I meant and you know that," she snapped, anger creeping into her eyes now. He was half-tempted to shout back, get her riled enough to have anger-fuelled sex without noticing that she was completely naked - _except_. Except that wasn't what he wanted, he wanted to show her that he didn't give a shit what she looked like, that he loved her softer tummy and fuller curves, that he didn't miss her old body.

                "Do you really hate being naked in front of me so much?" he asked, softer now. "When I love you like this - with soft skin and soft curves? You gave me a kid - kid I never thought I'd ever have, and you gave him to me. Every goddamn line it left on you is beautiful to me. Every inch it gave you is beautiful to me. And when I fuck you, I don't want you to hide it from me." He took her by the neck, shook her gently. "Wolf bitch turning soft?" She bared her teeth at him.

                "I can still bite."

                "Bet so. You always were a vicious bitch." He let go of her. "I won't force you to do a thing," he growled, crossing to the bed and swinging onto his own side. "If you want to cover up, you do that. But I'd fuck you no matter what you look like and still love you."

  
She thought about it - he almost saw the wheels turning in her head. Then she was advancing, gloriously naked and not a stitch on her and something in her eyes screamed trouble. He still let hercrawl onto the bed and straddle his lap, let her grind her hips down until his cock rose to hardness in his breeches and he was trying to thrust up.

                "I reckon Tormund's right about you," she said, her breathing starting to stutter as she sped her movements up. He grabbed her hips to help her, dragging her back and forth over his erection. Her hands were fumbling with the laces too.

                "Don't mention that ginger bastard when you're about to start fucking me," he grunted. She was raising herself enough to allow him to get a hand between them and free his now-aching cock from it's confines. She sank down onto him with a grunt of her own, started moving torturously slowly.

                "You have gone soft since Edd came." He took hold of her hips, starting moving her faster as she braced her hands on his chest. Dear Gods, she was gorgeous, head tipped back as she panted and tits heaving in his face.

                "I'll show you gone soft, wolf girl," he muttered, tightening his grip on her hips and starting to thrust up into her. Her nails dug into his chest.

                " _Fuck_ , Sandor - fuck."

                "Touch yourself," he snarled. "Let me see." Her hands left his chest, skimmed along her sides. One had to return to brace herself as he kept fucking her with long, steady strokes, but the other dropped to a breast, he saw her pinch her nipple and squeeze the flesh and felt her cunt flutter around his cock in response. "That's it woman." He risked letting go of one hip, ran his hand up her stomach and to her other teat, pinching the eager nipple there almost cruelly. She whined, arching her back to push her chest towards him as he explored her flesh.

                "Ah - Sandor, please, harder." He obliged, because he always did give into her.

  
He sat up, better to consume her, he nipped at her neck until a mark showed, his hands filled up with her tits, he found and explored every damn inch that she'd disliked. Her cunt fluttered and tightened round his cock, and he could already feel the tension in his shoulders that meant he'd be coming soon. He worked a hand between their bodies, found her sweet little nub and brushed his fingertips over it. She cried out, loud and harsh like a raven call - and came.

  
He spent himself inside her, collapsed backwards onto the bed even as she came with him, her naked skin against his own. When she rolled off him, she pressed herself into his side - and made no move to cover herself. He wrapped his arm around her, held her close as she ran her fingers over his chest in a light dance.

                "I want a girl next time," he grunted, apropos of nothing. "A girl with your eyes and my height." She snorted.

                "We'll have to do a lot of fucking then."

                "Fine by me, wolf girl.”

  


 


End file.
